


Flying in Circles Inside a Jar

by prosopopeya



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-26
Updated: 2011-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-28 04:59:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosopopeya/pseuds/prosopopeya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel makes a logical leap that leaves Dean's head spinning, and the both of them spinning away from each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flying in Circles Inside a Jar

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "Codes and Keys" by Death Cab for Cutie. Vague spoilers for season 5. Thanks to [melroseee](http://melroseee.livejournal.com/) for the beta.

  
**Flying in Circles Inside a Jar**   


Still dripping, Dean drapes his towel over his neck and works open the door to their latest motel room. It’s roughly 234 degrees outside, though—and he wouldn’t admit this to anyone—his perception of what’s hot has changed, since the Pit. Still, this motel has a pool that at least looks like it’s been in the vicinity of the proper cleaning materials, so Sam and Dean went for a swim and crossed their fingers they wouldn’t get meningitis.

At least if they did, there’d be an angel waiting for them back at the room to make it all better. Or, well, he would if he could.

Dean’s a little surprised when he walks into the room and Castiel is still there, but only a little. They’ve been hanging out more often, and though Dean and Sam figure it has to do with Castiel’s depleted mojo, they don’t really talk about it. He’s still wearing that coat, sitting still as a picture on the bed and watching what sounds like porn on TV. Angels, man. Frigging weird.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greets blandly, and Dean tugs the towel over his head, rubbing it over his hair.

“Dude, you gotta get out more.” His hair somewhat drier, he glances at the screen, and it’s some meaty looking guy working out. Boring. He can’t judge until the boobs come out. Crossing the room to his bag, he digs around for a T-shirt and some boxers to sleep in.

“Where would I go?”

“I dunno, but there’s something a little sad about sitting in here, alone, watching porn, _wearing a trench coat_ , when you aren’t even going to… you know. Do anything about it.” He stops, halfway to standing, and looks over his shoulder. “Wait, _are_ you going to…? ‘Cause I can step out if you need a minute.”

Castiel just stares at him, wide and unblinking and like he can look straight through Dean’s head, which he can. He doesn’t think Castiel takes advantage of that often, and maybe he can’t even do it anymore, but the possibility is there and it unsettles him a little.

“You may stay,” he says, like he had to evaluate the situation, and he turns his placid look back to the TV. Dean’s eyebrow shoots up because he doesn’t really know what all that was about, and he shakes his head, turning back to his bag.

“Whatever.”

He disappears into the bathroom for a quick shower, just enough to rinse the film of the pool off his skin, and he changes into soft, dry, mercifully thin clothes. When he pads out of the shower, a guy is moaning, and Castiel is in the exact same position, except his coat is folded neatly on the foot of the bed. He looks weird without it on, not quite naked, but not quite himself, and he clenches his jaw against wondering what Castiel would look like without the suit jacket, too.

“Well, that’s a step in the right direction,” Dean says, though he wishes Castiel had picked another of Dean’s objections to act on, and he checks the AC.

At least Castiel doesn’t talk about the plot anymore, and he doesn’t _start_ watching it with Dean and Sam in the room. The first time had been just plain weird, okay, but in the few other times it’s happened, well… It’s somehow become _normal_ , and maybe it’ll help Castiel not look so _terrified_ in case he ever gets the chance to lose that virginity of his again sometime.

And maybe the memories of Castiel in that Den of Iniquity ease some of Dean’s discomfort with this whole situation. He hasn’t laughed like that again, not since, and he can’t help but hope for the chance to come around again. He does feel easier, lighter, with Castiel around; he adds something new to Sam and Dean’s dynamic, and his quiet, pensive presence in the backseat is a sort of white noise machine, chasing away Dean’s darker thoughts.

“Where is Sam?”

“Still in the pool.”

The main selling point of this motel had been the acceptable pool, and apparently that had made it fairly popular; there weren’t any two-bed rooms left, and it isn’t like Castiel needs to sleep anyway. There’s no other place to sit except beside Castiel on the bed, unless he wants to drag over an uncomfortable chair. He stands by the AC unit, weighing his options, when Castiel lifts his eyes from the screen.

“What?”

It’s the look on his face—a very ‘seriously, what is your insignificant human problem now?’ look—that makes up Dean’s mind. He sits on the bed, situating himself against the headboard. His eyes fall to the TV, expecting boobs, a vagina, something along those lines, but what he gets is two guys going at it in a very serious way.

“Dude. Are you watching _gay_ porn?”

“It was on.”

How Castiel manages to sound so innocent and grave is a freaking talent. He could’ve used that as a kid, maybe could’ve avoided getting punished every now and then.

“…I’m going to need a beer.” Getting up again, he makes his way over to the minifridge. “So I guess you heavenly types aren’t as opposed to a little man-on-man as your fans say, huh?”

“The word of God has been confused through the multiple channels of communication that resulted in your Bible.” Castiel sounds so _steely_ , and Dean keeps his eye on his beer and his feet as he makes his way back to the bed, trying not read anything into that voice that really isn’t there at all. Right?

“So God plays a little telephone, and for hundreds of years people who swing a little to the left have to pretend to like boobs.” Castiel’s eyebrows lift in wry agreement, and he nods imperceptibly. Shaking his head, Dean raises his beer to his lips. “You guys really need to work on your communication skills.”

Castiel’s head swivels and Dean feels that gaze burning into the side of his face, and it’s Dean’s turn to look innocently baffled. There’s a twitch of amusement at the edges of Castiel’s mouth when he turns his head away, though, and Dean relaxes—somewhat—against the headboard. For a few moments, they’re actually sitting and watching gay porn together.

“Wow, that guy can really take a pounding,” Dean murmurs, and he fidgets, pulling from his beer again.

“Dean.” He looks over to find Castiel considering him, in that quiet, intense way of his, his hands resting on his thighs, and Dean quickly brings his eyes back to Castiel’s face. “Are you uncomfortable with homosexuality?”

“What? No,” Dean says, and okay, he sounds defensive, and Castiel is clearly about to call him on it. “Hey, whatever floats your boat. I’m the last person who should be throwing stones. If these two guys like to get dressed up in leather and bump uglies, then more power to them.”

He could probably get more philosophical, could say something about life and happiness and finding it where you can and when you can, but no one’s about to die, so there’s no need to pull out a fancy speech. Anyway, this is Castiel, and as the serious contemplation fades from Castiel’s face into something almost pleased, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t need to explain himself anymore anyway. Castiel gets him.

“I agree.” Though Castiel understands Dean, Dean wishes he could understand the meaning behind that small, barely-there smile before he turns back to the screen, and _why_ are they still watching this?

“Okay, seriously, I gotta turn this.” He holds out his hand, waiting expectantly for the remote, but Castiel looks blankly at him (selective telepathy, Dean guesses); reaching over Castiel, he takes the remote from where it lays beside his lap, and he starts flipping around the channels, mainly looking for anything that doesn’t star anyone’s private parts.

He isn’t really paying attention to what he sees on the TV screen though because of what he thought he heard when he leaned over Castiel just now. It was faint, but it sounded like a small gasp, something that Castiel’s taken to doing now, maybe a side effect of his slow slide to humanity, but usually it takes a special occasion. What was particularly special about Dean reaching over him, he can guess, but he’d rather not.

“Have you ever engaged in sodomy?”

Thankfully, Dean wasn’t in the middle of a sip of beer, otherwise he would look like a fucking cartoon character, spraying beer all over the cheap motel bedspread. As it is, he jerks his head to the side, surprise and a dash of uncomfortable fear in his eyes. There should be a law against angels being allowed to ask questions like that while looking so freaking calm. Dean couldn’t begin to decipher Castiel’s expression beyond curiosity, and maybe that’s all it is.

Maybe it’s Dean who’s hoping to find a little more there.

For a while now he’s been not dealing with this… this _thing_ he can feel that sits in him and burns low when he’s near Castiel, like one of those jars of sunlight, heated but not in any kind of suffocating way, like the heat outside. Just enough to get his blood a little warmer, his heart a little faster, and a smile near his lips. His philosophy has been, so far, not to pass Go and not to collect $200 because people aren’t supposed to get crushes on their guardian angels.

“No,” he lies, though he wasn’t the one who was being sodomized, so hopefully he can wriggle around the truth on a technicality. “Have you?”

“No,” Castiel returns promptly, and his head tilts, which Dean tries and fails not to recognize as stupidly adorable because angels shouldn’t be adorable. _No one_ should be adorable who’s over the age of seven. “Why did you lie?”

Frigging angels.

He sighs and sits forward, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, don’t tell Sammy, okay? Is there some kind of human-angel confidentiality?”

“This is a secret,” Castiel says, mildly surprised, and Dean glances up at him, assessing his commitment to this secrecy business.

“Yeah, it is.”

“You are ashamed of your actions.” It’s half a question, and Dean sighs again, leaning back against the headboard. He looks resolutely ahead because this conversation is easier when he doesn’t have to look at anyone.

“I’ve always been something of a ladies’ man,” Dean starts, though he regrets starting there already. “Not that you’d know it now. Jesus, it’s been a while. Um, anyway, I… yeah. Sometimes, when it was just me out on a hunt and Sammy was off doing homework or memorizing soil types or whatever he did with himself… Yeah, I found a guy or two that caught my eye. It doesn’t happen often—I’m definitely more of a boobs guy—but sometimes a guy will turn my head.” Shrugging like it’s nothing, he raises his beer to his lips again and takes a long sip. He’s half-smiling when he brings it away, though it’s more like a smile that’s wringing its way out. “I haven’t actually admitted that to anyone. Ever.”

“So… you are ashamed?”

Castiel is confused, and Dean isn’t really sure he blames him. Looking down at the beer in his hands, he idly starts to pick at a loose corner of the label. If he was going to have this conversation with Castiel, he isn’t sure he would’ve wanted it to happen with them alone in a motel room on a bed with the cheesy music of a cheesy gay porno stuck in his head.

“No,” he starts slowly, “no, I don’t feel… like I did anything bad. It’s just that I don’t really know what anyone else would think. Hunters—masculinity’s a big deal, and taking a guy to bed’s not the most masculine thing in the world.”

Castiel needs a minute to roll this concept around in his mind, and it looks like he’s _tasting_ it, his eyes falling off Dean and scanning along the bedspread.

“It can be emasculating, to submit to another man,” he offers, and Dean nods his agreement. He can practically see the gears turning in Castiel’s mind, and Dean’s beginning to wonder how he can dupe himself into not believing that Castiel has a vested interest in this whole conversation.

“I’m not a human man,” is not what he had thought Castiel would say next, but he says it anyway, and Dean boggles a little, his mind slow to catch up to wherever Castiel is leading him. “I’m more powerful than a human. My submission would be worth more than a woman’s.”

Dean thinks he’s caught up.

“Um, I guess.” Staring, he swallows thickly and tastes cheap beer and chlorine. Dimly, he wonders if he should’ve brushed his teeth, but he pushes that thought away. “What’re you saying, Cas?”

“It would not be emasculating to engage in sodomy with me.” There’s some definite excitement at having come to this conclusion, and then Castiel is leaning forward, and the kiss is sloppy because Dean is still processing the idea that Castiel wants to _sleep with him_. He’d barely begun to even entertain the idea that he wants to sleep with Castiel at all, and now here he is, threatening to knock Dean’s beer out of his hand as he leans against Dean.

He pushes against Castiel’s shoulders to get him off him, and there it is—the fear, the uncertainty, the look of fucking _drowning_ that he saw on Castiel’s face back with that stripper. It’d been funny then. Now he isn’t sure he enjoys being the cause of that utterly, terrifyingly clueless expression.

“What the hell, Cas?” he asks, because _what the hell_ , but Castiel is pulling away from him, defeat weighing down his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, getting to his feet. “I misinterpreted the situation.” Before Dean can stop him, he has his coat in his hands, and then he’s jut _gone_ , the flutter of angel wings far too loud over the sound of some commercial about shampoo, and his _Cas, wait_ dies in his throat.

He could call Castiel, could pray to him too, and he turns his phone over and over in his hands, warming it with his palms while he decides. Calling Castiel back means he wants this, doesn’t it? It would mean that he agrees that taking Castiel to bed would be a great idea, that there’s nothing strange or weird or wrong in it at all. He doesn’t know if he agrees with that, and he doesn’t know what he would do if Castiel _did_ come back right now.

What he does know is that what little he got to taste of Castiel was like wet stone, and it sits on top of the chlorine and beer like oil on water.

Sam comes back with his hair plastered to his face, his hands wrinkled, and he scrubs at his hair, looking around the room.

“Where’s Cas?”

Dean sets his phone next to his forgotten beer and shrugs, pulling a casual look. “Don’t know. Said he had to go. ‘Angel business,’” he says, mocking Castiel’s deep voice. Sam is unconvinced, but Dean picks his beer up again and the remote too, resolving to find something decent to watch. “I thought for a second you found a mermaid in the bottom of the pool. I was about to send a search party in after you.”

Sam says something about exercise and nearly melting, and he makes for the shower. Dean strains to hear the sound of Castiel’s arrival over the rush of water, but there’s just the low, mechanical hum of the AC.

* * *

The gravel stings in the open gash on his arm as he slides across the parking lot, the momentum of the blow dealt by the ghost sending Dean several feet back. The hunt isn’t going that great. Their idea of where the bones might be is a guess at best—somewhere on a construction site—and the ghost is fast, and wicked, and _pissed_. The only thing that’s going right is that Dean’s making a very effective distraction because the ghost is totally intent on tipping him into the wood chipper.

The sound of the shotgun blast from somewhere behind him is sweet, sweet music to his ears, and the ghost vanishes, giving Dean time to roll onto his back and try to sit up. Strong hands grab him by the upper arms and help him up, supporting his weight effortlessly. He doesn’t need to even see the hands to know that they don’t belong to Sam.

“Cas.” He turns around, disbelieving. It’s been a week, and other than a few comments from Sam about missing Castiel’s gruff voice from the back, it’s all been quiet on the Castiel front. Castiel’s mouth opens, and then closes again.

“Dean.”

Clearly they’ve made great progress in their time apart.

Castiel’s eyes shift to an area above Dean’s shoulder, and then he roughly shoves Dean out of the way and shoots again. He quickly reloads, pulling the rounds from his pocket. “You dropped your weapon.”

There’s no question that he’s being _chastised_ for being careless, and for a second, Dean’s 17, 15, _10_ years old, listening to John tell him how he screwed up, how he has to be better next time, or else he might die—or worse—Sammy might die. Dean’s jaw clenches and he wrenches the gun from Castiel’s hand, gripping it tightly.

“Yeah, it kind of fell when I got thrown across the ground the first time,” he snaps back. Something flickers in Castiel’s eyes and then it’s gone, and his expression is the same as it was before—irritation, increasingly less mild.

“You ought to be more careful,” Castiel starts, but Dean barely lets him finish, raising a hand to cut him off. This time he see the ghost over Castiel’s shoulder, and he nudges him out of the way, shooting him into a wispy haze; he turns his attention back to Castiel, a nerve in his jaw twitching. Castiel hasn’t spoken to him in a _week_ , and he turns up now to narrow his eyes at him and tell him how to do his job? _His_ job?

“Yeah? Well, you shouldn’t be such a fucking _dick_.”

The irritation in Castiel’s eyes blossoms into something more, and they’re staring at each other, standing way too close, swimming in each other’s hard looks. This is almost as familiar as when they get along, maybe even more so, and the fire he’s felt burning just beneath the surface of this situation starts to bubble over.

Castiel moves first, shoving Dean back against a chain link fence that rattles with the force, and Dean grips shoulders of his coat, his knuckles turning white, though later he isn’t sure what he’s gripping them for—to push Castiel away or to keep him close.

It’s maybe half a second before their mouths find each other, and it’s way different; it’s hungry and searching and unrelenting, _unforgiving_ for how the first kiss was, _accusing_ for how it didn’t turn out better, for how it hasn’t happened again until now. This time, there’s no question that Dean kisses back, and he’ll always wonder how far they would’ve gotten, if the ghost hadn’t appeared over Castiel’s shoulder, hadn’t pulled Castiel off Dean while he pulled the gun up straight, only for him to disappear in a screaming blaze before he could fire a shot.

Sam found the bones. The fact that his brother would be coming to look for him sobers Dean up, and he looks at Castiel, breathing heavily. He notes with some degree of detached interest that Castiel is too, his lungs sounding raspy from disuse. They don’t move to each other again; for Dean it’s because he’s waiting for the sound of his brother’s shoes to come crunching over the gravel. If it’s the same for Castiel, he doesn’t know, but he can be thankful for small miracles anyway.

“Don’t tell me how to hunt,” Dean says, with a touch of venom.

Castiel’s head tilts, and he can all but _feel_ Castiel reach inside his head, and he wonders if the son of a bitch is doing that on purpose, making Dean feel his presence crawl inside him to sniff him out. Whatever else, it’s a reminder that this physical thing, it’s only an extension of something that’s been going on since day one.

“Your father didn’t want you to get hurt. Nor do I.” Dean’s ready for a sharp retort, but Castiel shoots him a look, and he steps closer, closing the distance the ghost had put between them. “For no reason other than I would regret your pain, or your loss.”

For such a tender sentiment, Castiel really grinds it out, his voice heavy with frustration and borderline anger. He knows what Castiel means. It isn’t about Sam, it isn’t about the apocalypse or anything else; it’s about Dean, waking up in the morning, every morning, because Castiel can’t fix him, not now.

“Dean?”

Sam’s voice sounds thin on the air compared to the weight of Castiel’s, and Dean swallows thickly before he calls his brother over. Castiel lingers, and Dean can see the uncertainty in his eyes, and Sam’s feet crunch to a stop.

“Cas, thanks for coming.” He glances over to see Sam’s face fall, his eyes flicking between them. “What’d I miss?”

The breeze off Castiel’s wings startle him, and he whips his head around to where Castiel had been standing. He hadn’t even said _goodbye_ , though Dean’s glad for a chance to cool off. Sam holds his arms out questioningly, and Dean waves a hand at him, dismissing.

“Nothing. C’mon, I could use a cheeseburger.”

He starts back for the Impala, gun still in his hand, his arm stinging. He knows he’s in for something when he doesn’t hear Sam start to come after him, and his shoulders are already squared from his standoff with Castiel. He’s ready for when Sam makes an unbelieving noise somewhere in his throat.

“Dude. There’s something going on between you and Cas. A cheeseburger can’t solve it.”

“A cheeseburger can solve anything,” he barks, without stopping. “And there’s nothing going on between me and Cas.”

“Of course not,” Sam replies airily, though Dean can hear the scorn. He’s had enough of that for tonight. But then Sam starts after him, and he doesn’t hear anything more about it until their things are packed away in the trunk, and Sam performs a little on-site first aid. The door creaks behind Dean as he slides into the driver’s seat, Sam waiting for him.

“All I’m saying is—”

“ _Sam_.”

Sam is quiet, and Dean feels him waiting for Dean to look up; he does, and the amused patience on his face is not exactly soothing just now.

“All I’m saying is, you should work it out now, before all this Michael and Lucifer shit becomes more important than whether you two can hold an actual conversation.”

Rolling his eyes, he starts up the car, nearly absorbing the calming rumble of the Impala’s engine, and he grips her steering wheel, something that never fails to make him feel a little more in control.

“Thanks, Dr. Phil,” he mutters, pulling out of the construction yard.

* * *

Tonight Sam wants to go out to drink, to celebrate a successful hunt with a little successful pool hustling, some friendly bar company, but Dean knows that half the time Sam’ll just be looking at him expectantly, all but shoving the phone in his face, and probably praying under his breath. So long as there’s a case to distract them, Sam stops pushing the issue, but during a rest—it’s just _Cas, Cas, Cas,_ even if Sam is talking about something else entirely, because he can see his brother’s eyes pushing at him from under his stupid haircut.

It doesn’t help that Dean wants to call him, but he isn’t sure what to say, or what’ll happen when he does see Castiel again. So instead of being at a bar with Sam and his stupid pushy face, he’s alone in another motel, sitting on a bed and sipping beer, the phone beside him and ready for Sam’s 911, if something comes up at the bar. And he’s thinking about calling Castiel, but he turns the TV up louder.

The stupid thing is, he’s _lonely_ without Castiel. He doesn’t know how to handle feeling lonely with Sammy sitting beside him—Sammy, _alive_ , more or less happy, or what they can take for happy—should be enough for Dean. It’s always had to be enough for Dean, but now somehow it isn’t, and he almost feels selfish when Sam takes a nap in the car and Dean starts wishing for Castiel’s gruff voice from the back of the Impala.

He may not be able to hear Castiel’s arrival, but he feels it, like something in his soul snapping back into a groove that it’d slipped out of and he hadn’t noticed.

“Hello, Dean.” His greeting is determined, his jaw set, and a nerve in Dean’s jaw twitches because somewhere in a bar, his little brother is probably hanging up his phone after telling Castiel where he can find Dean.

“Hey. Thanks for disappearing.” Haughtily, he raises his beer to his lips. The cold steel of Castiel’s gaze reaches him even though he isn’t looking right at him.

“You’re welcome for saving your life.” So Castiel is feeling testy as he crosses the room and stands at the foot of the bed, evidently unwilling to trespass onto contested territory. Dean snorts and defiantly raises his chin at Castiel.

“I would’ve been fine.” Probably he would have, but the definition of “fine” varies by degrees, and he knows they both know it. Their eyes meet and there it is again; he can practically feel something electric in the air, can almost hear the sizzle-pop of live wires waiting to snap. Something else stirs in him, another groove preparing to slide into place.

“Look,” he starts, clenches his jaw, and tries again. “We don’t exactly have the most functional relationship in the world, okay, but most of the time we can swing being friends. You’re one of my best friends, actually,” he amends, and he rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. “And I don’t think angry sex will help either of us to keep that up.” Bringing his eyes back down to Castiel, he’s just sitting there, anger building up behind that disquieting gaze, but Dean’s resolute.

“You don’t want to get into this with me, Cas.”

Apparently, that’s all he needed to set Castiel off, and he falls on Dean, clenching his fists in Dean’s shirt, hovering over him on the bed. Dean’s adrenaline does double time, his heart racing in his chest, and all he can really see, beyond how _fierce_ Castiel is when he really lets it show, is how fucking sexy it is. It’s fucked up, but then they’re fucked up.

“Don’t tell me what I want, Dean,” he _growls_ , his eyes boring into Dean’s. “I’m finally capable of deciding that for myself.”

Swallowing thickly, Dean nods, relenting. The act seems to snap some sense into Castiel, who releases Dean’s shirt and sits beside him on the edge of the bed. What’s going on in Castiel’s head that makes him unable to look at Dean is beyond him, and he doesn’t have the mental energy to try to guess, anyway.

“So you want to fuck me.” Dean feels, of all people, like Castiel—making a statement like it’s a question. Castiel snorts, his shoulder rising and falling in an angelically pissed-off half shrug, and Dean doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to take from that. “You _don’t_ want to fuck me?”

Castiel’s head whips around, and he’s frowning straight into Dean’s soul. “I want _you_ , Dean. ‘Fucking’ you is only part of it.” Castiel rolls his eyes in a gesture that Dean finds way too familiar, and he shakes his head. “Though you are making me doubt myself.”

He already knew, though he didn’t want to admit it, that this thing coiling between them and waiting to strike was about more than just sexual tension. Though he doesn’t think they’ll ever say those three magic words, “I want _you_ ” seems close enough, seems _true_ enough, because “love” doesn’t even seem adequate to explain what they have between them. He wants Castiel—wants to fit him into his life, to make him a permanent fixture, to hold tight to him and keep him safe because Castiel seems like a constant in a storm of uncertainties.

Pressing his lips together, he makes up his mind, and he nods, looking down at his hands. “Yeah,” he says roughly, “yeah. I get that.”

Castiel must’ve heard the change in Dean’s voice because he’s watching Dean now, expectant, uncertain. Dean probably ought to say something more, but he doesn’t want to come out and _say_ it—that he needs Castiel too, that he wants this as much as he does, and it isn’t just about the sex. Instead, he reaches for Castiel, lightly pulling him closer. Castiel complies, his eyes on Dean’s until their lips meet, and probably long after, too.

This time the kiss is sensual, powerfully so, more powerfully than he would’ve expected from a virginal angel, but then Castiel has proved himself to be pretty passionate, hasn’t he? They spare a few minutes on open-mouthed kisses, learning each other’s movements, testing each other’s reactions. When Castiel slides his hand against Dean’s neck is when Dean decides to steal his tongue between Castiel’s lips, and after that, there’s no more room for taking notes.

Dean’s breathing raggedly and he does his best to keep up with Castiel, who doesn’t need to breathe, who’s fine with sliding his fingers into the hair just above the nape of Dean’s neck without even an inch of space between them. He doesn’t really want to pull away, his own hands gripping Castiel’s collar, like he’s trying to keep him from flying away. Maybe he is, because this is too good for this to ever end, and Dean’s afraid that the second it does, he won’t get it back again.

Those damned key cards are so silent that he doesn’t realize Sam’s coming in until the knob squeaks as it turns, and Sam’s halfway in the door already as Castiel separates himself from Dean, and Dean tries very hard not to look like he hasn’t been making out with his sort-of guardian angel. Though he silently accuses Castiel’s guilty slump to his shoulders for giving them away, he’s pretty sure he looks guilty, too.

“Um. Hi,” offers his brother, the moose, shuffling on his feet. He gestures to the parking lot. “I can leave again, if you need a minute. Or two.” His lips twitch with amusement, and that’s when it’s too much for Dean.

“It’s fine, Sammy,” Dean barks, and he carefully arranges his arms over his lap. “It’s nothing.”

Castiel’s head snaps up and he isn’t sure he’s ever seen anyone look at him like that—accusing and _hurt_ and disbelieving and _pissed_. Sam sees it too and he glances between them, looking like he’s about ready to take flight, if he had the wings for it.

“Are you sure? Because I can just go back to the bar—”

Castiel stands in one swift, even movement, still staring down at Dean. “It’s nothing, Sam,” he repeats, hollowly, and then he’s gone. And Dean knows he’s fucking screwed something up.

Sam finishes coming in the door and shuts it behind him, taking a minute to absorb everything, and when he turns around, he gestures to where Castiel was standing.

“I think you really hurt his feelings, dude.”

Dean stands abruptly, glowering at Sam, and he makes for the bathroom. He doesn’t want to have this talk with his little brother while he still has half a boner, while he can still practically taste Castiel, and his neck’s still warm from where Castiel had been touching him.

“Stay out of it, Sammy.”

He slams the bathroom door behind him, and he takes a hot shower, almost too hot, because cold showers are still half a luxury. When he comes out, his skin still pink, Sam is sitting on his bed with a book open in his lap, strange symbols twisted over the pages that probably mean something to him but only make Dean think of Enochian.

“Feel better?”

Dean grunts in reply and tosses the towel back into the bathroom before recovering a beer. He takes a long drink, exhaling heavily once he’s done. Sam’s watching him; he can feel Sam’s gaze just as easily as he can feel Castiel’s, though for different reasons. One is instinct, almost a part of him; the other is more like a moth sensing a light, whether it’s just a light bulb or fire.

“So are you and Cas…?” He lets the sentence dangle, and Dean’s thankful he doesn’t try to fill it with something that’s supposed to be funny. He isn’t in the mood to be laughed at.

“Do I look gay to you, Sammy?” He’s deflecting, but he can’t bring himself to admit it to his brother, either, that he is a little bit gay—bisexual, he guesses is the word for it, though he doesn’t like to put a word on it.

“No.” Dean can tell from his voice that Sam’s frowning at him. “But it looked like you and Cas were having a _moment_ back there.” He hesitates, and Dean hears him shut the book and set it aside. Getting ready for a serious conversation. Dean braces himself. “You don’t think I’d _care_ about something like that, do you?”

Dean half-turns, eying Sam, refusing to let his grip tighten around the bottle, though he can’t help but hold his breath. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to, either. Sam’s eyebrows disappear into his unfortunate hairline, and he shakes his head, holding his hands out.

“Dean, I don’t. It doesn’t matter to me at all.” At Dean’s raised eyebrow, Sam relents, shrugging. “Well, okay, maybe I was a little _surprised_ , but I got over that after watching you and Cas together for the better part of a year. I’m glad you two are finally doing something about that tension, because it was really awkward to watch sometimes.”

He stares harder at Sam, then he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, but when he opens them, Sam still looks smug, the little bastard, which means Dean heard what he said correctly.

“You knew?” He isn’t sure what he’s referring to specifically, whether it’s that he and Castiel have been doing this dance for a couple weeks, or whether it’s that he and Castiel have been gearing up for this dance since the word go. Either one is numbing.

“I suspected,” Sam confirms, and he shrugs again, like it’s nothing, and it looks like he means it. “You should call him. He looked really upset.”

Sam giving him advice breaks the spell, and Dean rolls his eyes, bringing his beer up to his lips again. His brother’s approval means a lot to him—he’s pretty sure Sam has that part figured out, too—and he doesn’t quite know what it does to the whole situation. Are Castiel and Dean supposed to _date_ now? Like the l-word, it just doesn’t really _fit_.

“Hey, how about you mind your own business?” he asks, but it’s more fond than anything. It’s Sam’s turn to roll his eyes, but he pulls his books closer. His expression is fond, and Dean’s is too as he turns away.

  
*** * ***   


 

He calls Castiel, once, and leaves a message.

“Hey, Cas. It’s me—it’s Dean. Listen.” Around here is where he realizes he doesn’t have a fucking clue of what to say. “We… I need to see you, okay. If—if you want.” And then he realizes that’s a disaster of a voice message and promptly hangs up, tossing the phone aside. He doesn’t call Castiel again.

No, it’s Sam who calls him next, when they’re working a case, and Sam thinks he’s found something apocalyptic, something an angel needs to look at. Castiel answers—probably because it’s Sam calling, which must mean it’s an emergency—and he’s there in two minutes, just as soon as Sam manages to explain what’s going on.

It’s awkward as hell.

Dean’s jaw clenches and unclenches, and Castiel’s eyes meet his for a moment before they slide to Sam, who’s clearly not super thrilled about having to rain on his brother’s UST parade, and even less happy about having to stand in a room and witness his brother’s UST parade.

“Hello,” Castiel offers, and Dean notes he isn’t really talking to him.

“Hey. Um.” Sam looks to Dean, but Dean waves his hand and turns around, going over to pick at the corners of books where they’d been researching.

“You said the situation was urgent,” Castiel prompts, and Sam seems grateful for a direction to this strange moment. Case first. His brother’s love life later, apparently.

Dean doesn’t involve himself too much in Sam and Castiel’s discussion of what’s going on, except to make sure that he keeps up with the two of them, understanding what’s going on and why. He goes where they tell him to go, shoots when he should, and for fucking once, they manage to stop something before it all goes to shit in front of them. It’s not all roses; there are two dead bodies and Sam needs stitches, but not too many, and otherwise the three of them make it back to their hotel room in one piece.

Miraculously he and Castiel managed to get along without being too awkward, but now that the distraction of a case is gone, there really isn’t anywhere for his mind to turn, other than how studiously handsome Castiel is in that stupid coat, and how his tie is flipped backwards, but it’s pretty hot.

“Are you sure you should be doing that?” Castiel asks, fretting, as Dean sets up to stitch up Sammy’s arm. Sam took some pain medicine, though Dean suggested he get drunk first. There’s alcohol nearby anyway, for cleanliness.

“Don’t worry, Cas. Sammy and I are practically field medics.” It’s strange to be calming Castiel down, though his anxious energy behind him is a little distracting.

“I’ve had worse,” Sam assures Castiel, and Dean looks up at him, a little startled at the tone in his voice. It’s a little like the tone he takes when he’s trying to soothe Dean about getting hurt, and he doesn’t know what to think about that. Instead he sets his jaw and starts stitching, telling Sam to brace himself.

“That looks unnatural,” Castiel murmurs, sounding more than a little alarmed, and Dean notices he’s stepped closer to see what Dean’s doing. He doesn’t look at Sam, and he doesn’t want to think about what his brother is noticing or not noticing as he stitches him up, working methodically.

“Less unnatural than a gaping wound begging for infection,” he retorts, calmly, patiently, the voice he uses to talk to Ben or Sammy about cars, which is one of the few times Dean actually gets to settle himself into that kind of teaching role.

Sam grunts his agreement, and Dean redoubles his focus, being careful not to mess this up. How Castiel reacts to that, Dean doesn’t know, but he resolutely ignores that he hasn’t moved, standing near enough that he can feel the edges of his coat against his back. He can’t think about that, or his hands might falter. Once he’s done, he stills, considering his work, his lips pressed into a tight line. Nodding, he finishes up, removing the excess string, and he re-sanitizes the wound, listening to Sammy hiss in pain with some regret.

“Just be glad you weren’t there when one of us had to stitch up our own arm,” Dean comments with a smile, able to joke about that now, if only to see Castiel’s eyebrows lift in an emotion he can’t name. Is he impressed, grossed out, or saddened? Maybe all three, Dean decides, as he cleans up their emergency med kit. When he turns around, Sam is easing his shirt on, and Castiel looks on, perplexed, but yeah—definitely a little saddened. Dean clenches his jaw.

“Well.” Sam sighs and looks between the two of them, Dean’s face drawing into a look of confusion. “I’m going to get another room.”

He’s already headed to his bag when Dean steps after him, very carefully not looking at Castiel. “What are you talking about?”

“You two are going to talk,” he says with a firm note in his voice, turning around with his bag on his good arm. “And I’d rather not be here for that conversation. It’s awkward enough standing around just watching you two stare at each other.” A little embarrassed, Dean ducks his head, but Sam chuckles as he makes his way for the door, which slides smoothly over the carpet. “I’ll text you the room number. See you in the morning.” There’s a hesitation in it, and Sam’s looking at Castiel, and his face is wondering if he’ll see Castiel in the morning after all.

Then the door shuts with a click, and Dean swallows thickly. Castiel is staring at him when he manages to raise his head, that sad tone to his eyes evened out to something harder, something more like what he saw before Castiel vanished the last time. Dean knows what he has to say, but doesn’t think he can actually push the words out of his mouth, which makes him feel like a chicken shit who shouldn’t even be having this conversation at all because he isn’t worth Castiel’s time.

There’s silence for so long that he can hear Castiel’s impatience in the shuffling of his weight on his feet.

“ _Are_ we going to talk, Dean?” He doesn’t sound like he has much faith in Dean just then, and that’s what fucking crushes him. The words come out in a stream that he isn’t sure he can stop, and stupidly he sees himself as Lindsay Lohan in _Mean Girls_ , and he almost wishes he had some actual vomit to dump on Castiel’s shoes.

“Look, Cas—it wasn’t anything I really _meant_ , okay? It was just like—just like a tick, you know? Sam walked in on something I really wasn’t ready for him to see—at least, not like that—and I just wanted that to… not have happened, and so it just came out that it was nothing because I just—well, it just came out.” He stops himself before he continues to verbally vomit on his own shoes, distinctly aware that Castiel’s steely glare hasn’t softened at all; only hardened. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he adds, softer.

Castiel presses his lips together and looks down at his shoes for a minute, and Dean itches to grab his collar and make him fucking _look_ at Dean, _now_ , but he takes a breath and counts to ten and tells himself to be patient. When Castiel looks up again, that steeliness hasn’t changed, but there’s something else in it now, something like hurt.

“How exactly was I not supposed to be offended by that?”

What makes that question even worse is that it isn’t even rhetorical; he’s really challenging Dean to try and explain that calling something nothing that had only just started to become an acknowledged something is a dick move. When Dean doesn’t have an answer, Castiel continues.

“Am I nothing, Dean?”

“No—God, no.”

The answer comes out without Dean even realizing he was going to say it, and it quiets him. Castiel is not nothing; far from it, and the full weight of that is bearing down on Dean now, making it difficult for him to breathe and also to believe that he managed to fool himself for this long at all. Castiel’s eyes cut straight through him, but it’s less vicious now, more tender, and Dean takes a hesitant step forward, his hands dangling at his sides, uncertain of what to do with themselves.

“I want you too, Cas,” he says, his voice soft because it’s rough with emotion. He clears his throat and tries again, squirming under Castiel’s microscopic gaze. “The sex, sure—” He breaks off and eyes Castiel, almost fucking _shy_ , and he shakes his head. “Okay, definitely the sex. But just… You sitting in the back of the Impala, or breathing down my neck when I stitch Sammy up, or trying to figure out the philosophy behind the _Beverly Hillbillies_ , or even when you’re pissed at me.” He stops, almost breathless, and he holds his hands out in a semi-helpless gesture that he doesn’t like. “You just fit in my life, Cas. Even when it seems like you don’t.”

He watches Castiel’s throat bob slowly, can almost see his words sink in, and can definitely see Castiel’s stare become even softer, losing that hard edge of frustration that Dean figures he pretty much deserved. When Castiel looks away, almost a little bashful, Dean steps forward in a sort of victory.

“I was not breathing down your neck,” he mutters, and Dean never thought someone deflecting could be so fucking heartwarming.

“You kind of totally were.”

Dean’s smiling, and then Castiel is smiling, and somehow the space between them shrinks, even though Dean can’t remember either one of them actually stepping closer. All he knows is, suddenly he’s close enough to put his hands on Castiel’s hips, and there’s warmth under his hands, radiating through the cheap, scratchy fabric of Castiel’s pants. His hands settle on Dean’s arms, tentative, then more confident, sliding up until his fingers are brushing the bottom of the mark on Dean’s arm, and through it all, somehow, Castiel’s eyes never skip from Dean’s, even though Dean’s drinking in everything about Castiel.

And then they’re on each other, and it’s all so fluid that Dean can’t really distinguish one motion from another. It should be harder than this, he thinks, as he pushes Castiel’s trench coat off, muttering something about it against the skin of his neck, and Castiel’s throaty chuckle is replaced by an unexpected gasp as Dean bites somewhere below his jaw.

Castiel is new to this, but he isn’t shy, his eyes flashing in lust as he steals the control from Dean once they land on the bed, Dean minus his flannel overshirt and Castiel minus his suit coat. His back hits the bed, and Castiel hovers above him like a connoisseur about to tuck into his favorite meal, and Dean licks over his lips in anticipation. Later, he can’t be sure if Castiel actually growls or Dean just imagines it because it would make sense, since Castiel falls on him with unpracticed but enthusiastic attention, his hand snaking up Dean’s shirt and pressing eagerly to his bare skin.

The next chunk of time is tangled, and they’re tangled as they interrupt their intense exploration of each other’s bodies only to pull at clothing, annoyed that it’s in their way at all. There’s little rhyme or reason to it—Dean goes from kissing Castiel with a deep hunger, his hand pulling at his clothes, to mapping the delicate skin of his throat, to biting his nipple to see if it would make Castiel gasp (it does), and back to his mouth again, then to his ear, far more frantic than he likes to be as a lover.

Castiel’s hips jerk when Dean wraps his hand around his cock, and he groans low in his throat, his hands clutching convulsively at Dean’s shoulders, and Dean starts on a few practiced strokes before Castiel forces his eyes open and grips Dean tighter, his nails pressing into his skin. Dean suppresses a shudder.

“No, stop—” Castiel needs twenty seconds to compose himself enough to talk, and in those twenty seconds, Dean feels like someone threw him into a pond and told him that there may or may not be flesh eating piranhas inside, but give the person twenty seconds to tell him one way or the other.

“What?” he asks hesitantly, gripping Castiel’s hip instead.

“I want it like how it is in the films,” Castiel says, as grave as ever, but more than a little desperate. At Dean’s confused look, he takes a small breath (and Dean notes with some satisfaction how rumpled he is), smoothing his hand up Dean’s side. “Like in pornography. I want you to sodomize me.”

It’s still hot, even if there are a few too many syllables in those words for them to qualify as bedroom talk, mainly because Castiel is so fucking _earnest_ even while he’s almost squirming underneath him. Still, he bites back a smile, pressing his lips into a thin line while he gets a grip on himself.

“You sure? It hurts the first time,” he says, uncertain, but even that wall of uncertainty’s pretty fragile, and Dean’s almost pulling away to grab his bag, where he keeps condoms and lube because he’s fucking prepared, just like his dad always taught him to be, even if he probably didn’t mean be prepared to sodomize an angel at said angel’s request.

“Dean,” and Castiel’s looking at him like he’s a moron, which can be irritating but right now is just smoldering because of the power it commands, “I’m an angel.”

He can’t stop grinning then, and he steals a rough kiss, swallowing Castiel’s whimper. “Yeah, but—“ He stops, pressing his lips together because reminding Castiel of his lack of angelic might seems like a bit of a buzzkill; the way Castiel’s eyes flash and flicker away, losing some of that deadpan resolve, only confirms that Dean shouldn’t finish that sentence.

“I just want this to be—awesome.” It’s the best he can salvage under awkward circumstances, but Castiel seems grateful anyway.

“I’m not sure how it could be anything else,” he returns, giving Dean that blank look again. “You’d have to try very hard. Don’t do that.”

There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips as he crushes their mouths together again, his hand buried in Dean’s hair, and for several minutes the question of whether or not sodomy will take place is lost in the liquid movement of their bodies together.

Castiel pulls away again, gasping, and he arches underneath Dean, pressing their hips together. “Dean. _Please._ ”

The next time Castiel gasps, it’s because Dean has a finger in him, and then two, and he’s moaning when it comes to the third one, his hips learning how to rock back against Dean’s hand with a steady rhythm that makes Dean impatient, but he wants this to be good. He knows that one slip could make this not awesome, no matter what Castiel says, so he takes his time, and nearly fucking kills himself doing it.

“Is this step complete?” Castiel grinds out, his hands twisting in the sheets as his head tilts back, exposing the line of that throat that Dean hasn’t quite been able to stop worshipping. “I—Dean— _now_ —now would be awesome—”

Later Dean will have to figure out if it’s cute or sexy how hard Castiel struggles to talk normally (well, for him) while his body writhes around four of Dean’s fingers buried deep inside him. Right now, he barely has the mental faculty to get the fucking condom wrapper open, and then on his cock, all the while listening to Castiel huff impatient sighs.

For all that Castiel is a surprisingly noisy lover, when Dean starts to slide into him, he goes still and quiet, enough that Dean worries for a second and lightly touches his face, asking if he’s okay. Castiel’s nod is brief, curt, and he thinks he hears him breathe out _please_ , so he keeps going, sliding home. When he bottoms out, there’s a flicker of pain, but Castiel clenches his jaw, and then his face smoothes out, and Castiel moans, a deep, throaty sound, utterly luxuriant, and utterly relieving.

Dean starts slow, learning Castiel’s body, memorizing how Castiel looks, flushed and wanton and blissful, but it isn’t long before Castiel _whines_ , like Dean never thought he would do, and he starts moving against Dean, gripping tight to his hips. Somewhere they go from easy, gentle thrusts to hungry fucking, hands and teeth finding places to settle, and Dean buries a few groans against the crook of Castiel’s neck.

He just wants to make it last, to lose himself in the heat of Castiel’s body and the firm line of his mouth for just a little longer, but Castiel’s moans are mounting to short cries, and Dean knows he’s near the edge. He grips Castiel’s cock, and it’s only a few strokes before he looks at Dean, utterly bewildered, and then it hits him, and he’s crying out in pleasure, shaking beneath him. Dean follows almost immediately, and he collapses onto Castiel, sweaty and breathless and exhausted but warmer and happier than he’s been in a while.

He doesn’t usually do cuddling, but he and Castiel hold each other for a while—long enough for both of them to catch their breath, definitely, and for the sweat to start to cool on Dean’s back, sending goosebumps up and down his arms. Castiel runs his fingers over them, as if perplexed by them, and hell, he probably is.

He should get up, he should get something to clean them off, but he just watches Castiel’s fingers follow the line of his arm until they reach Dean’s hand. They encircle his wrist and then slide to the back of his hand and pause, as if considering, before they link with Dean’s fingers, and he and Castiel are definitely holding hands while they cuddle each other in post-coital bliss. A description he never thought he’d apply to himself.

“I feel sticky,” he mumbles, his way of saying he’s not sure where to take this now, and Castiel turns his head to brush a kiss against his forehead.

“I believe we may be stuck together.”

Dean can’t tell if Castiel is being literal or not. Either way, it’s probably true.

“Yeah,” he says, after a breathless chuckle, and he starts to pull away, needing this second away from Castiel’s warmth to get his thoughts together. “Well. I’m going to clean us up.”

There’s reluctance in the way Castiel lets go, and Dean shuffles to the bathroom. He catches sight of himself in the mirror, looking freshly sexed, his hair sticking up and a few red marks where Castiel got a little carried away tasting Dean’s skin. There’s something else there, though, something that Dean has always been quick to see in himself and just as quick to stamp out as quickly as possible.

He’s scared. He’s scared of this big, nameless thing between himself and Castiel, scared of how things might change, scared of how much it means to him. If Castiel were anyone else, Dean would walk out of this motel room and not turn around. But if he went to Sammy’s room now, Dean doesn’t know if he could look at himself in the mirror at all.

The thought of leaving Castiel tightens something in him that he dimly recognizes as the Family Center of his anxiety, and any attempt he’s made at telling himself that Castiel isn’t _really_ family only leaves him feeling like he’s attempting to cut off his arm.

He grabs a wet washcloth and leaves the bathroom, flicking the light out behind him.

“Dean?” Castiel is worried, and Dean’s a little guilty as he settles back in bed. He only hesitates a moment before he lays the cloth over Castiel’s stomach, cleaning away the evidence of sex. There’s more intimacy in the moment than Dean had anticipated, but he doesn’t regret it, surprisingly. When he looks up at Castiel, there’s a soft smile at the very corners of his mouth.

“What?” he asks, self-conscious. Castiel covers Dean’s hand with his own, and he raises one shoulder in a half-shrug.

“I rarely see you so tender.”

“Shut up.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean pulls away, bashful and shy and flattered—oh god, he’s like a blushing girl under that kind of compliment, and he doesn’t like it. He pulls the blankets out from under them and tosses it over their laps, sinking down in the bed. Castiel joins him, and Dean slides an arm around his waist, holding him snugly. Castiel’s fingers lightly touch Dean’s arm, just beneath the fading scar of his handprint, and he traces a small line. He looks up at Castiel to say something, but the smile dies on his face when he sees Castiel’s frowning.

“What’s the matter?”

Castiel presses his lips together, and his hand slides up to cover the scar on Dean’s shoulder. “I should’ve been able to heal Sam.”

The sentiment surprises him even more than the timing of it, and he tips Castiel’s chin up so he turns those intense eyes on him. He sees it there—concern, guilt, frustration—and he remembers the way Sam had talked to him, soft, like a brother, and the question of whether Castiel is a member of their family seems to be resolved.

“Hey. Sam’ll be alright. Like I said, it’s not the first time, and we’ve definitely had worse.”

“That doesn’t make it better, Dean. That’s actually worse.” Castiel rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, looking way too grim and worried for what should be some pillow talk. Maybe this is just what pillow talk is like between hunters.

“Don’t beat yourself up. I used to do that every time that kid scratched up a knee, and it didn’t get me anywhere.”

Castiel turns back to Dean, and there’s something pleading in his eyes, something Dean recognizes because he saw it in the mirror when Sam and John weren’t speaking, or when he realized John had sold his soul for him, or when he knew he had to sell his soul for Sam. It’s a desperate look, helpless and hopeless, because there’s no way that Sam and Dean aren’t going to die for good eventually, but Castiel doesn’t think he’d be able to live through it.

He kisses Castiel, and it’s nothing like any of their others. It’s chaste, gentle and soft and brief, and he rests their foreheads together after, his fingers threading into the hair the base of Castiel’s neck. He’s still scared of this thing between them, unsure of where it will take them, but he can’t doubt anymore that the two of them managed to get twisted up in the other somewhere between Hell and now.

The fact that he has to stay, to stick with this, despite it being fucked up or hopeless, and despite Castiel probably deserving someone who isn’t a total fuck up like Dean, is almost soothing. Yeah, that’s terrifying in a bone-rattling kind of way, but what would be more terrifying is the idea that their relationship would have to be some perfect thing.

“Make you a deal,” Dean murmurs, and he slides his arm around Castiel’s chest. “I’ll still be here in the morning if you will.”

The ghost of a smile touches Castiel’s lips, and he nods, before his expression switches into something coy. “Should we seal that contract?”

The kiss is warm and deep and probably would’ve made a crossroads demon blush, and it’s fucking perfect because apparently they make up for their dysfunction with amazing sex. It’s not a bad payoff, really.

* * *

“Dean.”

Castiel’s voice is gruff in Dean’s dream, and his hands are all over him, sliding up his hips, pressing against his chest. He’s warm against Dean’s skin, solid and deceptively strong. Every time he takes a breath, it’s Castiel he breathes, and it’s a strange, inhuman scent in a way that he never thought would appeal to him, but it reminds him of the outdoors, of the air just after a summer storm.

“ _Dean_.”

With a jerk, Dean wakes up to discover that it isn’t Castiel’s hands at all that are all over him, but rather Castiel’s whole body, pressed against Dean’s side. It’s still dark outside and the red lights of the clock behind Castiel’s head looks like a five or a six, according to Dean’s blurry, freshly-roused vision. Frowning at Castiel, he buries his face in his pillow, which he belatedly realizes is half comprised of Castiel’s shoulder.

“What?” he grumbles, slinging his arm over Castiel’s waist.

Castiel turns on his side, and Dean refuses to open his eyes, at least until Castiel’s thigh slides between Dean’s legs and— _oh_. His eyes fly open and Castiel is looking at him with a mixture of confusion and hope. He brushes his thumbs over Castiel’s hip bones, and the faint, barely-there inhalation is enough of an answer for Dean.

“You have very active dreams. You were moaning in your sleep.”

Dean shifts closer, sliding his leg over Castiel’s, linking their legs together, and he ghosts his mouth over Castiel’s in a teasing kiss. He can be grumpy later, after the encore of mindblowing sex.

“I’ll probably be in sexytime overdrive,” he breathes against Castiel’s lips, sliding his hand up Castiel’s thigh. “Been a while since I had any.”

Castiel grunts in impatience, and he kisses Dean with a hunger that amuses him because Castiel doesn’t like to be kept waiting, apparently, and that opens up the door for all kinds of fun things. Castiel’s kisses are demanding, and Dean loves that he has to keep up, but that he can push Castiel back, too; when Dean pulls away to breathe, Castiel makes that little impatient noise, and Dean spends a few minutes teasing him, drawing his lower lip into his mouth and running his teeth along the inside of his lip. Castiel’s patience snaps, and Dean’s on his back, with Castiel straddling his hips and determination in his eyes.

“We’ll muddle through somehow,” he says with a faint smirk, and Dean grins slowly in return.

By the time the clock either says six or eight, Dean can’t even be bothered to squint at it because Castiel is riding him with way too much energy for a freshly deflowered virgin, but he said he wanted to try it, and, well, Dean was too magnanimous to say no. Dean’s the one who cries out this time, his hips jerking up against Castiel.

They collapse together again in a sweaty knot, and he drags his fingers through Castiel’s hair, holding him close. He falls asleep like that, or he must, because he can’t remember anything past Castiel’s uneven breath fading away against Dean’s neck and his hair brushing against his cheek.

* * *

When he wakes up, he’s alone, though the sheets still smell like Castiel. The emptiness in the bed beside him fills him with a kind of sick ache, but he’s pretty sure that Castiel didn’t leave because he was upset with Dean. Pretty sure.

Overall, beside Castiel not being here, he’s feeling less regretful, less panicked over all this than he thought he would be when he woke up. He was expecting the return of that instinctual need to run away from something as selfish as a relationship that means something to him, but instead, there’s just that anxiety buzzing around his Family Center. What that makes Castiel, he doesn’t know. Boyfriend sounds too feeble, lover too stupid. They just _are_.

He only manages to pull himself up into a sitting position, his eyes still on Castiel’s vacated pillow, when he hears angel wings and looks up in surprise. There’s Castiel, looking way more put together than Dean feels, holding a Dunkin Donuts bag in one hand and coffee in another.

“I thought you’d be hungry.”

Dean’s smile is slow. “Cas. You’re beautiful,” he says with the appropriate mix of sarcasm that keeps it from being cheesy, though Castiel’s lips turn up in a smile anyway, and he gives another one-shouldered shrug.

“I hope this means I’m forgiven for going back on our deal.”

“Dude, I’ll think about it,” Dean teases, swinging his legs out of bed and tugging over his bag to get dressed, “but donuts go a long way.”

Breakfast is way too easy, with light conversation and Castiel tilting his head at the Today Show, taking everything in like it’s a new gospel. Dean mostly watches him, figuring it’s his turn since Castiel stares at him enough, and just when he starts to think about calling Sam, there’s a knock on his door.

“Dean?” Sam’s hesitant, and Dean hops up to open the door, pulling on a conflicted face.

“Sammy,” he says, his voice thick, and Sam’s face falls faster than he’s ever seen it.

“Dean, what happened? Did Cas leave?” he asks, worriedly, shifting his weight on his feet.

“Yeah. Sam…” Dean stares steadily into Sam’s eyes, his face turning from sad to expressionless. “He didn’t bring enough donuts for the both of us.” He pushes the door open wider so Sam can see Castiel on the couch, just starting to turn away from the TV to pay attention to the brothers’ conversation.

Sam punches Dean lightly in the rubs on his way into the room, and he asks Castiel what’s up with the lack of donuts, and Castiel meets Dean’s eyes, and even though Castiel doesn’t say it, he can see it. He cares about Sam, but Dean’s his number one. For a flash of a second, he’s concerned—Sam is number one, always—but then he reconsiders because when has he been that, just that, for anybody?

Swallowing thickly, he claps Sam on the back.

“Alright, alright. We’ll get the kid a happy meal.” He grins at Sam’s glare, and then he looks between Castiel and Sam, eyebrows raised, feeling more prepared for a day of hunting than he has in a long, long time. “Where we off to next?”


End file.
